


This Is L.A.

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Gen, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-24
Updated: 2002-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles. Based on the Sheryl Crow song. Scenes from a city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is L.A.

The only thing that Kathy could take when she was hungover was Starbucks mochacchinos. She huddled over the drink, trying to sip slowly. Her head pounded.

Across the street was a giant carwash, men and women in business attire driving Buicks and Datsuns into its gaping maw. She wondered if they were doing it on their lunch break, trying to get errands done before racing back to work.

That was what Los Angeles was, cramming all the ridiculous tiny details of life into a one-hour break. There was no breathing room. She shut her eyes.

_I want to go home._

*****

Greg was lost on Santa Monica Boulevard when the sun came up. He felt polluted; too many drinks, too many cigarettes, too much, too soon. He felt like buttered ass.

"Fucking car," he mumbled for the hundredth time. "Fucking cabs. Fucking fucking fucking."

"Hey, man." Someone approached him, hand out. A half-filled spray bottle hung from his hip.

"I got nothing, buddy," Greg said. "Sorry."

The man's dirty, battered face softened. He touched Greg's shoulder in kinship. "Yeah, times are tough." Then he moved off.

Greg stood blinking in the sunlight, wondering what to say. He couldn't think of anything.

*****

The promoter was plain ugly to Wayne, dressed in a suit the color of a squished Twinkie. He was saying, "C'mon, man, you love to schmooze. It's just a party."

 _Party, schmarty. It's an orgy._ Wayne said, "Look, I don't think so. Not tonight, okay?"

Disappointment on the promoter's face. One less celeb to parade around. "Your call, babe."

Babe. People called him that so much, it'd lost all meaning. He watched the promoter leave, turning back to stare at the dressing room mirror. His eyes were bloodshot: parties, gigs, tapings.

"Got what you wanted," he whispered to the reflection.

*****

The only song that came in on the hotel radio was a Muzak version of "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" Colin finally turned it off. The other amusement was peeling the labels off of the sweating beer bottles and then spinning them on the floor. That got old after a while.

The hotel's sheets were starched and unyielding. Pictures of horses lined the walls. They were exaggerated to an obscene degree, they didn't look like horses at all.

Colin closed his eyes and imagined every hotel room he'd ever been in, and somehow they all looked alike.

*****

The pool had been neglected; the water looked like moldy tapioca pudding. The plastic handcuffs Mac had gotten as part of a young magician's kit were draped over the diving board. Ryan poked them with the pool's net; they dropped into the water with a plop.

Pat always paid more attention to the house; she knew what was broken, what needed to be fixed, what was most important. He rolled his eyes when she reminded him about the lights or the garbage or the pool, mumbling, "Can't we have a little fun before we die?"

Now, he missed being reminded.


End file.
